A Last Bow Interrupted
by JeannetheCat
Summary: The year is 1940, and World War II is in full swing. Watson, distanced from Holmes and depressed with his own life, frequents a concert, his mind heavy with thoughts of the past. He thinks this is the end, more or less, but Ravel and a brilliant violinist disagree and signal "the beginning". At 88, how much can he take? Turns out, quite a bit.


Author's Note: _Not sure if this is a one-shot, not sure if I've the energy or ideas to make it a full-length fic. All the same, hope you enjoy, and all constructive criticism is most certainly welcomed. Also, I realize I _am_ bending the limits on how athletic senior-senior citizens can be. I'm not sure where this is going, but who knows, it could turn, by necessity or desire, into a steampunk AU where people live no sweat to their 120s, or at least "stay strong" up until they die. ^_^_

A Final Bow, Interrupted

The year was 1940 and the world was at war. Standing on the side of one of the many busy London streets, I watched a regiment of young British men march through, drilling, preparing. _Holmes_, I moaned to myself. Both of them. What the blazes were they playing at? Together, surely they could stop this madness. It was not detective work; the perpetrators made their identities no secret. They smiled in public, and laughed for propaganda. They had the world in a vice of fear, and old men are not fearless. _Except Sherlock._ I gritted my teeth. Wave after wave of young, patriotic faces swept by me, equal to the waves of horror and nausea that wracked my body. How many of these young men would die, had to die? Their footsteps beat out a grotesque tune, one Sherlock's violin would scream out only if forced. _God, Holmes! _The world turned upside down indeed, I grimaced, finally hearing the real melody the band was playing. Surrounded with these crude imitations of music, I made a decision, walking through the wet, dirty streets of London. I would frequent the concert. I would hear beauty, as my ears yet serviced me.

I was not unpatriotic. I believed in freedom and the rights of man _and _woman. I believed everyone was born with equal rights, and that no one had the privilege or prerogative to steal a person's right to life from them. Most of all, I believed in a nation's duty to preserve these principles, despite the opposition it faced. However, I did not have to like it, or become excited as others did. I would not fall to reminiscing on wars gone past, the "glory days" as some disgustingly referred to it. My life had turned darker, and the turn surprised me. A decade ago, my wife died, leaving me alone. Five years ago, my daughter, Helena, followed. I only had my son-in-law left, and he was fighting in the war, in that great conspiracy to kill men before their time. Deep down, I was ashamed to be living. To be alive, while around me and around the world, men and women died because of inhumanity. Some deserved it, were on the wrong side, but I held that killing is wrong, and those who cause it, are its provocateurs, its allies, are the truly evil.

Looking down on the world, the proverbial man in the moon surely saw a beautiful world, powered and lined with thoughts and light, two concepts almost synonymous. If he had a telescope, he'd see London, and smile, _Beautiful_. What would Holmes think of such thoughts? I sighed. Was I treating him fairly? We hadn't seen each other in around thirty years. Thinking of him as a young, brilliant, active man was no longer accurate. I felt a weight over my heart at the consideration: my dear Holmes was closing in on death, just as I was. It was another case, and yet, we weren't on it together. A sudden fear paralyzed my footsteps just as the concert hall came into view. _He could be dead_. His voice seemed to calm my mind, and logic's restorative powers calmed my brain. I read the newspaper daily. The passing of the greatest detective the world had ever seen would not go unnoticed. My feelings intervened then. I didn't want to speculate on other possibilities. I wasn't even sure if I wanted to see Holmes again. To this day, he was the only person I looked up to without reserve. And yet, how could mere age aspire to change my opinion? He was still brilliant, _and yet_... I bought my ticket, briefly glancing at the billboard announcing the night's performance, Ravel and Saint-Saens. Despite myself, I smiled. Two of Holmes' favourites. We often did this, when we both called 221B Baker Street home.

There were few people in the concert hall. Without effort, I employed Holmes' methods, though without the swift deduction from present minutiae. That genius eluded me, despite my having twenty years' close observation of that particuar art's master. No, I could only interpret the "feel", the overall "theme" of a person. Music teachers, professors, musicians, grandmothers and grandfathers made up the audience. My heart stinged, upon realizing that I had almost counted in the last category. The lights were dim, perfectly calling my long suppressed memories to the forefront of my mind. Like flashes on a camera, with each step towards my seat—221, I smiled—, I felt something like peace. There was my wife twenty years ago in her Sunday best. We would do this. Sometimes Holmes would join us, but these two loves of my life—for I loved and love that man in a way I still have not yet understood—never belonged in the same act. Act I, Holmes and faithful Watson. Act II, fade Mr. Holmes, enter Mrs. Watson and faithful Mr. Watson. Was it my fault? Did I not make attempts to ingratiate Mary to Holmes? In truth, I hadn't. We were all aware of the divide, the unexplainable, unbridgeable gap. Independence, fierce and cold, but _free_, contrasted with domesticity, warm and loving, but tied-down. I could slip easily from one to the other, I, the natural wearer of any mask provided it pleased. But Sherlock refused to, and Mary didn't know how.

I found my seat, and lowered myself, not without a few cricks, into the worn red velvet. The lights dimmed, though my memories did not follow suit. Flash after flash against the darkness my memories exploded. Helena met Holmes once, when she was fourteen. They adored each other, in the way an older, cynical, wiser brother loved his whimsical, naïve sister. She bridged that divide, just as I did. It was remarkable. I didn't know how Holmes treated children. I knew I could handle his moods, but I _was _worried when I decided Helena should finally meet the legend her father often spoke of. I cannot forget his _smile_. They immediately launched into discussing the latest scientific advancements in chemistry. He was smiling throughout, a warm, fatherly smile. Hours later, when we said goodbye just as the sun began to set, he reached out and pressed Helena's hand. He looked proud, and when he turned to me, he gave me that same look of triumphant pride.

Why had they all left me? The announcer was saying something, and a few groans colored the ambience. _You left me_, Holmes seemed to say in his sardonic, affectedly surprised manner. I did. An old man's tears are horrible to watch, and I am glad no one had the discomfort in that dark room. My tears were the result of eighty year's life lived. The world was going wrong, and I was all messed up with it. I couldn't bear for Holmes to see me like this, broken, cynical, depressed, and so, so _tired_. And that frightened me. I'd done my part. I served as a doctor until the last five years. I'd written pamphlets, taught lessons to future army medics. I'd done my part to heal the world, but what was my effort? The world was rotten, and so was I. Alone, all alone. _But, you see, Watson, _I _never left you_. The music started then. I cried harder. Tzigane. Just as Sherlock played it. Beautiful, better than any world-class musician. Despair, contempt, brilliance all straining from every note. Who was this violinist? I didn't bother to open my eyes, instead enjoying the colors the music painted on my eyelids. My mind was the most beautiful, most repentant it had ever been. I wanted to stay there a little longer, before I had to be bombarded, _bombed _with the horrors of this world.

A surprise. My peace turned, manifested into a frown. I began to hate the musician. I felt mocked, and a strange urge to defend Holmes. Who was this imitator, who dared to _be _Sherlock Holmes? It was then I realized, truly registered that there was no orchestra, no accompanying piano. Just a single violin, singing against, in opposition to, a dark sky. I wasn't sure if I wanted to hear the gypsy strain, the winsome, mischievous melody, Holmes' favorite part. He would play it over and over again, improvise on it, and make a beautiful concert on those few notes alone. I woke up well past midnight to those notes, once, the week I first moved in with Holmes. His genius was evident in the first seconds I met him, still, I hadn't appreciated the company I was keeping. Not only was he brilliant, I had met many geniuses. He had imagination, _flair._ The finesse of a poet, the depth of a philosopher, the empathy of a humanist. It was childish, but I began to walk out. I didn't want to hear. Too late. The first note shook me. Slowly, I turned around, feeling the brisk tap of eyes trained on a point. Not the scores of disapproving eyes of those who sat around me. No. Different, cold, brilliant grey eyes, bright as the stars the violin sang to.

I turned. Ridiculous, how sentimental to even think, how stupid to hope—

And there he was.

More flashing lights. My mind was instantly transformed to the man on the moon's London. Flashes of dynamic light, cars, trains going everywhere, carrying people, but most importantly, thoughts. _Holmes_. Without missing a note, he focused entirely on me. He _had_ changed. White hair replaced black, and he didn't seem as rail-thin, rail-strong. Nevertheless, it was Holmes. He smiled. His eyes were bright with—I was shocked. _Tears_. I began crying again. There it was. That look of triumphant pride. _I never left you_, _dear friend, dear Watson_, his eyes said. No blame, no reproach, he understood my emotions. He understood.

The rest of his entirely solo concert passed in a blur of magnificent light. Here, holding out in one dark room, was the brightest, purest light the entire world had seen, would ever see. Damn the whole world's darkness, Sherlock Holmes would defy it all. It was my turn to feel pride. He ended with Saint-Saens, Introduction et rondo capriccioso in A minor, Op. 28. Holmes always played this when a case was, in my eyes, going badly and almost over, when to him, he knew it was almost won. Just one more sweep of his bow, it seemed, and the curtains would be drawn back, and light would flood everything, illuminating it clearly against a sea of blurriness, all the facts, the scenarios Sherlock could have drowned in. Except he didn't, he never did. He received a standing ovation, that night. Imagine my disappointment when I couldn't get up fast enough to start it myself.

Immediately after his performance, I went backstage. The stage manager reached out to hand me a note, but I already knew what it said. Excitement encouraged my feet, and I ran out to the street. Under the concert hall's backdoor awning, Holmes stood, violin in hand. There were no embraces, no over-strong hand shakes. It had begun to rain as only London can. Ravel still whirring through my mind, the silence did not affect me. This silence was not awkward and disjointed. We had everything to say to each other, and forever long we had been out of stride, I fell in step without trying. The night was full of contrasts. Bright lights, dark streets. Shining stars, midnight sky. Music, the monotonous beat of war.

"Watson?" His voice was no slower, no softer, yet I detected more feeling, more sadness than I had ever heard before. If I didn't look at him, I saw a vibrant man of thirty. If I looked at him, I saw a vivid man of eighty. Nothing had changed, really.

"I know it. But surely you don't need me? You may be all right, but I've wound down to a large extent," I chuckled sadly. Was I ever really needed? Had I ever been?

"I'll say it, anyway." He turned to look at me, the beginnings of a smile shining from his eyes. "There's a case. I need to solve it, the whole world needs it solved. And where would I be, without my Watson? Where would the whole world be? I was a regular performer there, for a whole month, Watson. That was my last performance, my last bow. From everything, too. I had plans to go back to Sussex, and shut myself off from the world, from all the cases needing to be solved, especially one in particular.

"However, right before I went on stage, I got this _feeling_," he laughed. "It wasn't an insight based off of facts, I merely felt your presence, Watson. I knew you would be there." His loud, madman laugh echoed through the streets. "You interrupted my last bow! Thank you!"

He shook my shoulders. "Thank you! Now let's save the world, and not just London, this time, Watson!"

"Of course." Because it was the most natural thing in the world. Because it was the only right, true thing to do. Walking the streets back to his lodgings, my head was once again filled with espionage, mystery, and the sophistication of a beautiful mind married to a beautiful heart, as I was reminded of time and again.

Introduction, indeed, Monsieur Saint-Saens.


End file.
